


I’m a scar away from falling apart

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt, Fainting, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Paranoia, Sasha James Lives, Strained Friendships, Stranger Avatar Danny Stoker, Team Bonding, at first at least, yes the first chapter is sickfic elements because of who i am as a person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: What if, instead of replacing Sasha after Jane Prentiss attacks the Institute, the Stranger uses Danny Stoker to mark Jon, who is the only person that can see it's Not Him?Title from a fall out boy song :)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

Since the first day they’d all been medically cleared (and told by the ECDC that it was safe) to come back to the Institute, Jon has been trying and failing to hide from his coworkers. Tim isn’t letting him get away so easily. Sure, Jon could intimidate Martin out of his office with a stern glance and a harsh word, and Sasha, as the only other person in the office who Jon trusted with work of any real importance, tended to be too busy to spend her time harassing him, but Tim is next to impossible to avoid. 

He could lock his office, he supposes, but after being trapped with the worms, Jon now can’t breathe behind a locked door. It wouldn’t stop Tim for long, anyway--he knows from the unfortunate experience of asking one too many questions about a follow-up to a statement that Tim can pick locks, and he doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’d do it. 

His appetite is returning, slowly but surely. Jon can now eat a whole meal again, whereas at first, he’d felt ill after a few bites. Sleep was another story entirely, however, which is to be expected. He’s been weaned off the painkillers and now usually needs nothing more than a few paracetamol to manage through a day, but it catches up with him at night, the throbbing of his hip, the pulsating of his own blood through inflamed legs. He’s sure the muscle tension caused by the clenching of his teeth are the root of the headaches he’s been experiencing. And even when exhaustion finally wins out over all of that background agony, the nightmares wake him up. 

The first time Tim sees through the “I’m fine” lie is the first time it rains after their return. It’s their first Friday back, and though he’s been doing an apparently convincing impression of his normal self, his skin is crawling. Jon turns down Sasha’s invitation for lunch because he cannot go outside. He tells Martin not to come in because he’s recording even though he isn’t. His plan is to stay here on the cot, but when he emerges from his office an hour after the assistants should have gone home, he’s startled to see Tim sitting at his desk, playing on his phone. 

“Hey, Boss,” he calls without looking up. “Heading home?”

Jon sputters. “What on earth are you still doing here?” 

Tim shrugs. “Could ask you the same question.” 

“I asked you first.” 

At that, Tim breaks into a grin, setting his phone down. “Bit of a petulant argument for the Head Archivist, don’t you think?” 

“N-no,” Jon tries to fight, but Tim’s face shows that it isn’t working. “Really, why haven’t you gone home?” 

“Because I could ask you the same question,” he replies again, “and because I think I know your answer.”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. “The… rain,” he admits, “for you, too?” 

“That musty, earthy smell,” Tim confirms. “Might as well be under the soil. It’s awful.”

Jon nods. “I used to really like that smell.” 

“When I was a kid, Danny and I would go outside after a good rainstorm and pick up the earthworms that had been displaced. We’d put them back in the grass, in little piles. It was a competition to see who could save the most of them.”

Jon shudders. “I’m sorry--I don’t mean to be rude. I’m sure that’s a lovely memory.”

Tim’s smile is sad, distant. “It was,” he replies. “But… not so much, now.” 

Jon shifts his weight from foot to foot, careful not to spend too long putting pressure on the painful side. “I’m going to grab my coat,” he announces. “We’ll take the tube together, if that’s alright?” 

His hands shake all the way home, but being able to see that Tim’s are, too, well. If he can tell Tim it’s going to be okay, and Tim is so close, then perhaps he has to believe they’ll both get through it. 

The second time Tim sees through the “I’m fine” lie is when Jon forgets his cane in his office and finds himself trapped in the stacks, unable to climb the stairs. Well, he hadn’t so much “forgotten” it: more like he’d only left his office with the intentions of going down the hall to Elias’, then had been escorted down into the basement by their boss, who’d asked him to find a statement before leaving him alone. It hadn’t even dawned on Jon that he’d be stuck down there until he’d found the file and attempted to take it up the stairs, only to lead with the wrong foot and cry out in pain, crumpling to the ground as the instability worsened. 

Martin had poked his head around the top of the stairs and called down asking if he was alright, and Jon had rattled off some lie about a paper cut. When Tim had heard that, he’d decided to investigate--a man like Jonathan Sims would not make a sound like THAT for a paper cut. 

He bounds down the stairs as quickly as his own still-achy muscles will allow and finds Jon searching aimlessly and without passion through the stacks. 

“Looking for something?” Tim asks, fully expecting the inevitable brushing-off. 

“Actually,” Jon says hesitantly, “I--erm, I found it already. Just need to--bring it to Elias. Review it in his office.” 

Tim nods. “Alright,” he encourages, “so why are you still down here?” 

Jon shifts to sit on a step stool, allowing a restrained but not altogether suppressed grimace to wash over his face. “Do you, ah, and if this is too personal, please, don’t feel as though you have to--actually, you know, it might be inappropriate to ask, being your boss—”

“Jon,” Tim chuckles. “What is it?” 

A steadying breath. “Do you still have pain? From where the--the worms burrowed in?” 

Tim blinks a few times. “Yes,” he replies honestly. “I do.” 

Surprisingly, Jon doesn’t seem reassured by that answer. “Right,” he says, forcing himself painfully to his feet, “of course you do. I’m being a bit dramatic, I suppose.” 

Before he can try to get to the stairs again, Tim stops him with a hand to his chest. “Woah,” he curtails, “not what I said. Why would you think you’re being dramatic?” 

Jon shrugs. “You’ve gone through the same thing I have,” he says, “and you’re getting around just fine.” 

“Right,” Tim says, “but you told us what the doctor said. The worms did serious damage to your hip. They were chewing at BONE by the time we got the corkscrew to them. Mine weren’t nearly as deep.” 

After they’d been released from hospital, Martin had set up a group chat, and all of them had shared what the doctors had told them, mostly because they were all so worried about one another and only a small amount motivated by macabre curiosity. Jon had, obviously, been injured the worst, but Tim hadn’t had a clue it was a source of embarrassment for him, the new limitations. 

Jon sighs. “I just feel like…”

“Like everyone else is healing around you, and doing a much better job of it?”

“Exactly.”

Tim laughs. “I’ll have you know that I feel the same way about you, boss.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Oh, leave off.” 

“Seriously! The way you can concentrate on work? I’m sleeping so little, I feel like I can barely track my own conversations, and here you are, productive as ever even running on no sleep.” 

Jon is silent for a moment. “You’re not just trying to make me feel better?”

“No. I’m trying to make you feel worse, in fact--I resent you for it! Elias is going to think I’m a slacker.” 

“He knows that already.”

“Hey!”

Jon actually chuckles, very softly. “I’m joking. You’re doing fine, Tim. It’ll take some time, but you’ll acclimate to whatever level of normal comes to you after this.” 

Tim squeezes Jon’s bicep. “Hm,” he hums. “Thank you, Boss. Really. I needed that.” 

He leaves the logic of “if it’s true for Tim, it’s true for me” to sink in while he goes upstairs to fetch Jon’s cane so he can, with a little extra support from behind that neither of them will mention, finally get back up the stairs. 

The third time Tim sees through the “I’m fine” lie is when Jon manages to give himself an awful migraine from a combination of stress and tense muscles. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, three weeks after they’d all come back. Wednesdays are usually horrible for Jon’s moods: it’s late enough in the week that he’s already tired, but too early to feel as though it’s almost the weekend, but today seems different. Worse.

“Has Jon torn the heads off everyone who’s gone into his office today, or am I special?” Martin demands, stopping in front of Tim’s desk to fume. Tim winces. 

“Sorry, Martin,” he empathizes, “but it’s Wednesday. You know better than to bring him tea.”

Martin throws his hands into the air. “I wasn’t bringing him tea!” he defends. “I had a legitimate question about something he’d given me to research, and he yelled at me!” 

Tim frowns, because that doesn’t sound quite right. “Really?” he asks. “What did he say?”

“It was barely even intelligible, with all the stammering,” Martin vents, “but he was angry.” 

Well, that’s properly worrisome, because Jon is never anything less than articulate. If Martin weren’t so angry, he’d certainly realize that for himself, but Tim decides to count it as a small blessing that it’s gone unnoticed. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Tim promises, and Martin grips his wrist. 

“Nope,” he declines, “no, thank you, but I was under the impression that what I said here was confidential.” 

“Of course,” Tim reassures. “I need to ask him something, too--I won’t mention you said anything. Just--you know, make sure it’s not just you.” 

Martin pales. “I was--I was joking about that,” he clarifies. “Wh--do you have reason to believe it would be just me? Did Jon say something?” 

Tim can’t help but laugh even though it makes Martin more flustered. “It’s not you, Martin. I’m just going to check up on him.” 

“Good luck,” Martin calls after him, so sincerely that Tim can’t help but wonder what Jon had said to him that was so mean. 

Tim knocks on Jon’s office door before entering and immediately knows there’s something wrong. The curtains are drawn, the lights are so dim that he can’t possibly be able to read, and even with those things combined, Jon is leaned over the statement he’s pretending to look at with one hand covering his eyes like he’s trying to block out the sun. 

“Hey, Boss,” he calls quietly as he takes a step into the office. “Got a minute?”

“Apparently,” Jon mutters, and he does indeed sound irritable, but there’s something else there. Something Tim is getting better and better at identifying. “What is it?” 

“You look wrecked.”

Jon massages one temple with his hand. “Is that all?” 

“If you want it to be,” Tim says, because he’ll only meet him halfway. He won’t keep chasing him; after all, they did both go through the same trauma, even if Jon might have withstood the brunt of it. Tim will keep his hand extended, but Jon has to learn to reach out. 

It takes a moment, whether from the reluctance or the pain, for Jon to collect his thoughts, and Tim is patient. 

“I snapped at Martin,” he says meekly. Tim’s exaggerated disbelief is met with a scowl. “Oh, don’t act like he didn’t tell you. I’ve had arsehole bosses; I know your rights.” 

“You’re not an arsehole,” Tim defends, “though you do owe him an apology. Or at least an explanation.” 

“I will,” Jon huffs, “I swear. When I can move again.” 

That changes the tone a little. “Are you alright?” 

Jon stiffens. “Just a migraine,” he whispers, “and not even that bad of one. Shouldn’t’ve shouted.” 

“I’ll be right back,” Tim announces, seeing an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Jon doesn’t care enough to react, which means the pain is worse than he’s letting on. Tim exits the office and beelines for Martin’s desk, stopping in front of it. 

“What did you do?” Martin asks, and Tim shakes his head. 

“Need a favor, actually.” 

“Oh,” Martin adjusts his tone, “sorry. Of course. What is it?” 

“Jon’s got a migraine, and I think he’d be more comfortable lying down on the cot. Think you could help me get him there?” 

Martin’s demeanor completely shifts, morphing into a more recognizable tone of concern. “He’s--I didn’t even know he got migraines. He told you that?” 

“I think they’re a post-worms development,” Tim admits, “but yeah. I’m going to try to bully him into having a lie-down, but I might need a hand. Interested?” 

Martin doesn’t say another word as he follows Tim into Jon’s office, shushing him when he tries to apologize, and moving him into the spare room to rest on the cot. Even thanks them when they’ve got him lying down with the lights off. 

They went through something awful, sure. But they’re healing, and because of that, they’re becoming closer than ever. 

It’s raining outside when Jon forces himself to his feet stiffly to answer a knock at the Institute door. Internally, he’s slightly bitter that no one else is willing to do so--he’s the one, after all, with the mobility issues, so why should it fall to him?

“Hello,” he greets the man on the other side of the door, “can I help you?” 

The man, soaked from rain and likely freezing but not shivering, even in his relatively light clothing, nods. “This is the Magnus Institute, right?” he asks, and Jon nods. 

“Yes, are you here to give a statement?” 

He hesitates. “Actually, I’m… My brother works here, and I really need to see him.”

Jon blinks. “Oh!” he replies. “Well, come right in. Who’s your brother?” 

Behind him, before the man can reply, Jon hears Tim and Sasha’s footsteps and conversation both stop in their tracks. 

“Oh my God,” Tim whispers, a frenzied color to the breath it rides upon.

Jon frowns. “I’m sorry, am I missing something? Tim, do you know him?”

Sasha’s shaking as she points toward the Stranger in the doorway. “Jon,” she says, as though it’s obvious, “that’s Danny.” 

“What?” Jon asks, desperately glancing from the man in the doorway to Sasha in confusion. 

“Oh God--catch him!” Sasha shouts just as Tim’s eyes flutter shut and his muscles go limp. Jon barely manages to stop his head from colliding with the floor. 

Jon has seen pictures of Danny--the ones that Tim keeps on his desk, the one that’s Tim’s phone lock screen, the ones that decorate Tim’s flat. He’s seen pictures of Danny almost every day for years. Danny looked a lot like Tim--darker in complexion, a sort of boxy jawline, thick black hair, though Danny’s was still styled in an unfortunate 2013-esque boy-band side-swept bowl-cut when he’d passed away, while Tim’s had sported a variably-messy undercut since the day Jon had met him. Danny had dark brown eyes, which Jon remembered because Tim had once told him how much Danny had envied his greenish-brown ones. The man standing in front of him has bright blue eyes, so light they’re piercing. His nose is less hooked than Danny’s, his chin is less defined, even his ears don’t lie as flat against the sides of his head as Danny’s had. Jon might not be the most perceptive person in the world, and he can certainly admit that he doesn’t know everything, but in this case and this case only, he’s absolutely certain: 

That is Not Danny Stoker.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Jon knocks on the door to his own office, waits for the meek, “come in,” and pushes open the door. In his hands are a package of frozen mini tacos from the freezer and juice box, since Tim has likely finished the one he’s been sipping at. 

“How are you feeling?” Jon asks quietly, and Tim groans. “Bruised?” 

“Just my pride.” Tim quirks an eyebrow at the package of tacos. “What’s that for?” 

“Your pride,” Jon says as he hands it to him gently. “The break room didn’t have frozen peas.” 

Tim presses them to the back of his head where it had hit the floor despite Jon’s best efforts--he’d managed to keep him from a concussion, but there’s no way he’s not sore. Tim is sitting up on the carpet where Martin, Sasha, and Jon had carried him after he’d fainted in the doorway of the Institute, since it’s nearing closing time and the librarians are nosy. Danny is in the chair opposite Jon’s desk, where Jon eases himself down after ensuring Sasha’s steadier hands puncture the juice box before giving it to Tim to sip. 

“I’m sorry about all this,” Tim apologizes.

“Don’t be sorry,” Sasha chastises. “You’ve had a shock. A good one, but a shock. Anyone would react the same way.” 

“I’d have--I don’t know, called, or something,” Danny tries to defend, “but I didn’t know your number. Or your address.” 

“How did you know he worked here?” Jon asks, and Danny casts an icy blue stare to him that feels as venomous as an outright glare. 

“I’m not sure,” he replies, his expression unchanging even as his voice communicates pensive confusion. “I just… knew.” 

“We get that sort of thing here a lot,” Tim says.

“Not exactly the same,” Jon mutters under his breath, but they ignore it. The Thing That Isn’t Danny is wearing a change of Martin’s dry clothes, ones that still remain in the storage room from when he’d lived here. Jon can’t imagine Martin has good memories associated with any of the items, so he’s never asked him to clear them away.

And if he sneaks in to borrow a large, warm jumper every once in a while when he’s working late on a cold night, that’s unrelated. 

“Danny,” Martin begins, earning his focus which doesn’t appear to unsettle Martin the same way it has been doing for Jon, “I’m sorry to--to ask, and you certainly don’t have to answer. But, I just--how did you get out?” 

“Well, he’ll have to start earlier than that,” Jon points out. “For Tim’s sake, right?” he adds under a collective group wince. “In order for him to understand fully.”

“I don’t mind,” Danny says. “Though my memories are hazy for some of it, and I apologize for that.”

“Please, stop apologizing,” Tim begs. “Just. Whatever you remember, I suppose.”

“Where do I start?”

Tim hesitates. “Do you remember the Royal Opera House?” 

Danny nods. “God, of course I do. Urban exploration, weren’t we funny? What kind of a hobby was that?” 

“A stupid one,” Tim says with a bitter laugh. 

“Yes. Well, I do remember it. We were poking around where we had no business poking, and I had, uh, broken off on my own, gone to…” 

“Up to the attic.”

“Yes, the attic. Just me and my torch, and I was… I don’t even know where she came from. She was just suddenly… there, standing there. This harlequin sort of… doll, thing? Clownish, really. But not altogether unattractive.” 

What a strange detail, Jon thinks, but no one else reacts.

Tim frowns. “Were you scared?” 

“Yes,” he replies in a tone that holds no residual fear, not even the hollow sort of frozen trauma Jon is used to hearing in statements. “I was scared. She knocked me unconscious--I can’t remember a thing after that, not for a long while. Bit of wood or something, I think she used. When I woke up, I’d no idea how I’d gotten there; certainly no inkling that I hadn’t arrived of my own volition. She told me her name was Nikola, and that I was one of her acrobats; that I’d taken a bad fall during a circus performance and had hit my head. I didn’t remember who I was, and I was too afraid to ask. Something about her… I don’t even think she called me anything--none of them did. And I didn’t think to ask why. So stupid of me.” 

“Hey,” Tim says gently. 

Jon’s heard that voice before. Sasha, usually, was the recipient, when she started to stress-spiral. Sometimes Martin, when he’d have anxiety attacks and try to tell himself that no one cared. Jon had only heard it directed toward himself a handful of times, and the reasons for it have faded with time but the pure, unfiltered love in the tone, pink around the edges and, in the center, the color of terracotta--that remains in his mind. So, this is where he learned that tenderness. 

“Anyway, as soon as I remembered who I was, I knew I had to escape. I didn’t know where to go except here. To you.” Tim squeezes his hand, and it makes Jon’s heart jump uncomfortably. 

“I hate to bring it up,” Jon begins, and Tim’s laugh is a warning. 

“He says, before he does exactly that.” 

“But I’m afraid I have a question.” Tim is angry. Sasha and Martin are getting there. He can’t stop; he can’t let this slide. There has to be something, some question he can ask to expose to them what’s so painfully obvious to him even as a relative outside observer. Something. If he keeps pushing. “Tim has… Well. You’ve told me this story before. And you always said that you watched Danny die.” He knows he says “Danny” as if he’s talking about an entirely new person he’s introducing to the conversation, someone who isn’t in the room. It’s intentional. 

That appears to make Tim hesitate. “That’s… true,” he admits. “I did.”

For a moment, the ire in Not Danny’s eyes is so white-hot and hostile that Jon feels his skin prickle with adrenaline. But he doesn’t portray any of that as he shrugs. 

“I obviously can’t speak to what happened there. Must’ve been some sort of trick,” he says in an accent that doesn’t sound quite like Tim’s and more like the accent Sasha uses when she does impressions of him.

“How did you get out?” Sasha asks, but Danny shivers, though his face once again doesn’t change. “I’d rather not talk about it right now,” he declines, “if that’s alright. It’s… a lot, all at once.” 

“Of course,” Tim comforts, on the verge of tears, himself. “You can take all the time you need. I just can’t believe you’re home.” 

“Unbelievable indeed,” Jon agrees, unable to keep the bite out of his tone. 

After the chat and a bit more juice, Tim is feeling steadier, and when Martin finally is convinced to let him try getting to his feet again, he doesn’t waver. He allows the four of them to have his office and exits to the break room, citing feeling a bit lightheaded and needing a bite to eat. The feeling of faintness isn’t an exaggeration in the slightest, but the idea of having an appetite certainly is. 

Something is terribly, awfully wrong. It feels like he’s swallowed Freon, the icy dread pooling in his gut and making him a poisonous sort of nauseous, like if he were to try to drink some tea or have a snack as Martin had suggested when he’d shuffled off, that it would come right back up as ink and rubbing alcohol. 

He outright yelps when he feels a hand on his shoulder as he faces the sink, trying to control his breathing. 

“Woah, hey; just me,” Martin says, backing away with his hands up in a placating gesture. “Are you feeling alright? You looked so pale during that whole talk with Danny, but I get not being able to say anything. There’s--there’s a lot going on.” 

Jon blinks rapidly as he tries to process anything Martin is saying, but it’s all so far from his priorities right now--why would he care about his own well-being when Tim is in there with a monster?--that it just frustrates him. 

“Is Sasha still with Tim and—?”

“Er, yes,” Martin replies. “I believe so. I only left to see if you were alright. Which you still haven’t said, by the way.” 

“I’m fine,” Jon brushes him off impatiently. “I just--you see it too, right?” 

Martin looks puzzled. “See what?” 

“That’s not his  _ fucking _ brother!” Jon finally breaks, fist slamming painfully against the countertop next to him. It’s whisper-shouted but doubtlessly the harshest tone he’s ever taken with Martin, and he feels guilty; he’ll apologize later if someone else doesn’t rip into him for it first. Martin startles. 

“Jon,” he says slowly, reaching toward Jon’s--he doesn’t know; shoulder? Face? Heart? Why in the hell else would he pretend he can’t see that this is an entirely different human being than Tim’s brother, if not because he’s on his side?--and Jon bats his hand away angrily. 

“Don’t.”

Again, Martin reacts more like someone who’s just frightened a wild rabbit than someone who’s being shouted at by their boss. 

“I won’t touch you,” Martin promises. “I just think you should--should sit down, or something? Are you still feeling lightheaded? You don’t look well.” 

“Martin, I know you’re not this thick,” he says. It’s not a compliment. “You know as well as I do that’s Not Danny Stoker. Why the hell are you playing along with this?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jon; seriously. I think you need to sit down. Does your head hurt? Perhaps you should go to A&E.” 

“If you’re not going to help me,” he trails off, fuming. He doesn’t want to make a threat; doesn’t know what it would be even if he were to finish the sentence, and it would certainly be hollow in any case. 

Why is he so angry??

He makes his way back to his office to find his assistants and That Thing staring at him, pleasantly and with a little concern. 

“Feeling better?” Sasha asks, and Jon nods tersely. 

“Fine.” 

“Good,” Tim says. “Do you think I would be able to leave early to take Danny back to my flat?”

Jon’s eyes snap to the Thing That Isn’t Danny, sitting there blankly, no indication of malice or anything else in its face. 

Almost worse than if it were holding a knife to Tim’s throat. 

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.” 

Sasha’s face falls. “You’re joking.” 

“Almost never.” 

“Jon,” Martin reasons, apparently not having taken the hint and following him instead back to his office. “It’s only an hour early, and it’s a Friday. There’s hardly anything to be done, and if there is, Sasha and I can cover it.” 

“It’s not just that,” Jon argues. He can’t explain himself, suddenly, feeling choked and panicky. 

“Then what?” 

Jon looks at her, working his mouth for an excuse, any excuse, but he can’t find one. 

“Elias—”

“Well, boss, I hate to use a vacation day for an hour, but I have them saved up. In fact, I’d like to cash in a week of them. Elias can hardly argue with that, can he?” 

Tears, frustrated and afraid and overwhelmed and embarrassed, well up hot behind Jon’s eyes. 

It won’t make a difference. Whatever That Thing That Isn’t Danny is planning to do with Tim, Jon can’t stop him from leaving in an hour, regardless, but the damage is done already. All his assistants are fuming, and he’s nothing to show for it. 

“Right. Of course. I’m--mhm. I’ll. I’ll have Rosie clear your request.” 

Tim pointedly doesn’t say goodbye to Jon as he leaves, hugging Sasha and Martin on his way out and promising to keep in touch. 

Jon might have been able to ask for the same steady communication, but he’ll have to earn that back, now, and he’s not sure he’ll have the time. 

When the door closes behind him, Jon lets his eyes go fully wild. 

“What in the hell are we going to do?” he demands. Sasha; Sasha has spent possibly even more time looking at photos of Danny than Jon has. Surely she’ll—

“Do?” she asks irritably. “What are you talking about, Jon? Do about what?” 

“God, are you both out of your minds?” Sasha jumps the way Martin had when he raises his voice at her. “I don’t know who this person is! Tim doesn’t know who this person is! It’s Not Danny!” Before Sasha can protest, Jon is on his feet, heart racing. “I’ll prove it!” 

As quickly as he can, not caring whether Martin and Sasha are following, he rushes to Tim’s desk for one of the photos of Danny—

But when he picks it up, his stomach sinks. 

Because the person in the picture isn’t Danny, either, not anymore. Piercing blue eyes mock him from the Polaroid. 

His hands are shaking. His legs are unsteady. 

“Satisfied?” Sasha asks unkindly. 

Jon can’t move. 

“Jon?” Martin tries, much gentler. He can’t respond. “I don’t think he’s well, Sasha. Look at him. He’s trembling. Jon?” 

“How did you do this?” he commands. “How?” 

“We didn’t do anything,” Martin swears. His tone is low, gentle. It makes Jon livid. “What, er, what do you think we did? What are you seeing happening?” 

“Enough!” Jon cries. “I’ll be in my office, if you’ll both be no help.” 

“Please, we WANT to help, Jon. We just don’t know how.” 

“If you ‘don’t know,’” he sneers, “then what you can do is stay out of my way.” 

He locks his office door before they can push their way in after him and tunes out their calls and knocking until they give up and he’s all alone without a clue what to do next.


End file.
